


Bleed hearts and diamonds

by fictionalkid



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Antony is a flirt, Bottom Antony Dimmond, Card Games, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal is impressed, M/M, Murder, Poker Nights, Post-Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Top Hannibal Lecter, and also very reckless, so many poker/card/game references... so many, they fuck on the poker table, until he isn't, we all know what happens to Antony so i'm not gonna tag it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27139873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalkid/pseuds/fictionalkid
Summary: “Does Will Graham bleed hearts and diamonds — red like the rest of us? Or does he bleed clubs and spades — his soul pitch black like yours?”
Relationships: Anthony Dimmond/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 95





	Bleed hearts and diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a brief Hannibal/Antony drabble but quickly turned into a challenge of how many poker/card game metaphors I can stuff into one fic hahaha. Enjoy (and feel free to count them if you want)!

Every time Hannibal and Bedelia host a poker night at their house, Antony Dimmond is invited. Every time, he comes wearing his finest cologne and not wearing anything under his figure-hugging jeans, and stays until late, to play a different kind of game. And every time, Bedelia makes an excuse to leave them alone in the room, not wanting to observe nor to participate. 

Antony is sprawled across the velvety green surface of the poker table, smiling enticingly, looking like he is the jackpot to be won. Shirtless, legs spread and those tight jeans open like an invite. He picks up a poker chip, drags it along his bottom lip ever-so-slowly, clamps his teeth around it. A little preview of the wonders that his mouth can do. The man is a tease, a pretty sight, and Hannibal lets himself be entertained. 

“Has Will Graham ever played at your table?” 

Hannibal raises an eyebrow at the question but doesn’t dwell on it, and instead focuses on unwrapping the knot of his tie and letting the garment fall on the floor. 

“He would never miss a game.”

“I can tell. He seems like the kind of man that would go all-in on a bet, even if he suspects you have the winning hand,” Anthony muses.

He is correct. Hannibal has to commend the man’s ability to describe his and Will’s dynamic so insightfully. It’s impressive, considering that Hannibal never even speaks about Will unless prompted. 

If Hannibal didn’t have pre-existing proclivities for a darker shade of brown curls and more green-tinged eyes, he may have considered Antony as his first preference for an intimate partner. The man is bold, flirtatious and fun, but unfortunately Hannibal isn’t as flexible as he’d like to be when it comes to changing the object of his desires. Antony is either unaware of the fact, or simply unbothered. His eyes get darker with lust with every button of Hannibal’s pristine button-up shirt that comes undone to expose his flawlessly-shaped chest. 

“You’re right. And I always have the winning hand,” Hannibal smirks at him. 

As soon as his shirt joins the tie on the floor, Antony’s lips are on his neck, spoiling it with languid lips and mischievous bites. His hand finds Hannibal’s thigh and slides up, deliberately swerving away from bulge between his legs, to continue its way up to his chest. He knows how to tease, and he knows Hannibal likes it. The man is clearly determined to climb up the ranks of preference. Hannibal is rather pleased by the coquettish attempts, and some part of him would even like to see Antony succeed at attaining the first place. 

“You do,” Antony agrees, “But even though you had the winning hand, he made you fold your cards for him.”

He is correct, again. Too correct. Hannibal thinks about Baltimore, the flawlessly arranged life he had there. He was headed for the big win but had to fold his cards, count his losses, walk away from the table and leave everything behind. Just so one specific player could stay in the game. Hannibal’s proclivities for that brown-haired, sharp-minded, killer-catching player have always been mildly inconvenient, but now he realises they’ve become a real hindrance to his winning streak. 

“Enough about my previous life. Today it’s you who wants to be folded, isn't it?” he asks, changing the topic smoothly. Almost as smoothly as he slides the jeans off Antony’s lean legs. 

“Isn't it obvious?”

“Oh, it is very obvious. And I’m going to fold you over this table, exactly like you asked.”

Antony’s smile is all shades of smug and satisfied. “I’m the best you’ve ever had, or will have, mark my words.”

Antony’s words are more likely than not just flirtatious cockiness, but to Hannibal they sound like an insinuation about the lack of the much-wanted intimacy between him and Will. The hint is so faint it’d be easy to ignore. And he should, but he doesn’t want to. He leans down and bites into the centre of Antony’s throat, a warning disguised as an act of seduction. 

_Keep talking like that and I’ll fold your body in an entirely different way_.

“I’m open to be impressed by you,” is what Hannibal says instead.

And God, he wishes he were as open to being impressed as he makes it sound. Hannibal knows his heart is biased, but he has to at least try to fight it. So he does. He tugs sharply on the locks of hair he’s been playing with, and as expected, Anthony’s moan drowns out the distracting thoughts at the back of Hannibal’s mind.

In no time Antony is once again spread on table, folded in the right ways to display the best parts of him, Hannibal’s fingers rubbing wonders into his prostate and eliciting a litany of heavy breaths and moans. 

“When Graham played at your table, did he match your bets or was he too scared to gamble?”

Hannibal wonders if Antony ever shuts up. In what world is it considered seductive to talk about one’s past lovers during an intimate act? He doesn’t mind, though.

“Did he match my bets?” Hannibal echoes pensively, never ceasing the back-and-forth movement of his fingers, “He _raised_ them.”

“Oh, he got a _raise_ out of you?” Antony purrs and wraps his hand around Hannibal’s length, “I bet it wasn’t this kind of a raise, though.”

He accentuates his words by pumping his fist a few times. Hannibal lets out an unsteady exhale as his eyelids fall shut, delighting in the contact. 

“I very much prefer your kind of raise.”

His mind isn’t fully behind the statement, but it’s convincing enough to encourage Antony. Perhaps encourage him too much. 

The man reaches up in an attempt to make their lips meet — only for Hannibal to realise at the last second and tilt his head so that Antony’s lips land on his jaw instead. Antony frowns but doesn’t question it, thankfully. 

It wasn’t exactly a calculated move on Hannibal’s part, but rather a repercussion of allowing the man of his dreams to infiltrate his mind again. It’s almost like there’s an invisible hand gripping the back of his neck, yanking him away when he comes too close to kissing another man. And right now, Hannibal really isn’t in the mood to have his actions questioned, because for once he doesn’t have a dignified excuse. 

He retracts his fingers, hooks his mouth onto Antony’s clavicle as a distraction from never meeting his lips, and pushes into him. Being enveloped by the sweet tightness of the warm body underneath him should be the most effective way to stop his soul and bones from longing for somebody else. The logic is flawless; the more intimate adventures he shares with Antony — or any other man or woman really — the less he’s going to think about Will. 

The table creaks under the heated grinding of flesh against flesh, the piles of poker chips scattering around as Antony’s hands search frantically for something to grasp. The friction feels good. And if Hannibal closes his eyes and imagines a different face looking up at him, it feels even better. 

So he keeps his eyes wide open. 

He bites his lip, concentrates on pushing that godforsaken face further and further out of his mind with every thrust of his hips. There is no way Hannibal Lecter is going to let his compromised heart take control of him. 

And he would succeed, if Antony just stopped talking. 

“Does Will Graham bleed hearts and diamonds — red like the rest of us? Or does he bleed clubs and spades — his soul pitch black like yours?”

And just like that, he sees Will in his mind, clearer than ever. Will in his kitchen, a knife buried deep in his abdomen. His body bleeding crimson red, just like all the people that ended up as a dish at Hannibal’s dinner table. But his eyes bleeding pitch black, a dark void of nothingness instead of the spark that used to burn in them for Hannibal.

Will had tricked him into revealing all of his cards, and for that, Hannibal made him bleed out all of his colours. That night, Hannibal left the game with his club, spade and diamond, but without his heart. 

He clutches what is left of it, the hollow heart-shaped carcass in his chest, closes his fist around it in an iron-tight grip and keeps going as if nothing had happened — none of this, of course, showing through his facade of polite indifference. 

“Will bleeds both red and black, wears both suits with equal fit and elegance. The duality of right and wrong, good and evil, all in one man.”

His tone is casual and unaffected, voice only broken up by the physical exertion as he keeps pounding into Antony. 

“And you allowed someone with dual loyalties at your table?” 

“It would be a boring game if he and I played the same side.”

“Now you’re bluffing,” Antony counters.

Hannibal just quickens the rhythm of his thrusts and presses his face into Antony’s neck, a strategic move to avoid eye contact and conceal that he is indeed bluffing. As much as Hannibal loves a good game of mutual intrigue, he’d much rather have him and Will playing on the same side. And for a while he thought they were, up until he noticed the change of suits; the betrayal that hurt more than he would ever admit. 

“Let me guess. He tried to _blind_ you,” Antony speaks again.

Hannibal meets his eyes; averting his gaze for a few seconds was more than sufficient to fully compose himself. 

“He played the small blind, yes,” he responds with a smug smile.

And like the intelligent being that he is, Antony finishes the metaphor for him:

“... But you played the big blind in return.”

Hannibal hums in approval, surprised how much rational thought Antony’s brain is still capable of, considering the blissed-out expression on his face. If the writhing of his body under Hannibal’s expert touches are anything to judge by, Hannibal should be fast-tracking him to the highest tier of heaven any minute now. 

“Playing people is what you do, isn’t it? Are you going to play me too?” 

“Aren’t I already? Pushing all your buttons, drawing all kinds of wonderful sounds from you,” Hannibal drawls between pressing open-mouthed kisses to the man’s chest. 

All it takes is a few more sinfully skillful movements of his hips, and Antony topples over the edge, digging his nails into Hannibal’s back and kicking a stack of poker chips onto the floor. The exquisite arch of his back, the string of Italian curses spilling from his mouth, and the clenching and trembling of his body are inviting Hannibal to follow him. And if he needs to close his eyes and revisit the image of the man in his mind just for a brief second to reach his own release, then that’s a detail he’s happy to let go unmentioned to everyone, and most importantly to himself. 

They disentangle their bodies after a few deep breaths, somehow managing to fit side by side on the poker table. The sweat coating Antony’s skin makes him look like an oil painting, and his smile is wider than before they started. Hannibal watches him idly, his body pleasantly numb from the climax, the longing feeling in his chest sated for now. 

“People are like a card game to you. You play them and you fold them,” Antony huffs out an amused laugh, breaking the silence between them, “But how do you always win, even when the odds are against it?”

“It’s no more complicated than applying basic human psychology in the right ways, for both people and cards.”

“It’s not as innocent as you make it sound. You have tricks up your sleeve.”

“I never cheat at cards,” Hannibal objects with a smile.

“Do you cheat on _people_ then?” Antony counters in his ever-playful tone. 

Hannibal notices how his seemingly clever answer was twisted around and flung back at him. Antony is witty, daring, and good with words — all that’s needed to impress Hannibal. 

And impressing Hannibal is like playing blackjack; you draw too little cards and score pathetically far from the line, you draw one too many cards and you’re over the line, _dead_. So far, it seems that neither of them knows exactly where that line is.

“I don’t,” he answers.

“Really? Because ever since I met you, you’ve been acting like you’re cheating on him,” Antony presses, still sounding casual as ever. 

But Hannibal can smell the jealousy, and he isn’t impressed by the scent. 

“Will Graham doesn't know about this, and if he did, he _wouldn’t care_ ,"Antony continues. 

He is wrong this time. Perhaps the only way to learn where the line is between being pleasantly bold and recklessly impudent is to cross it. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond and instead sinks his teeth into the man’s neck again, this time more as a warning and less as seduction. Antony doesn’t seem fazed. Either too blinded by the afterglow or consciously disregarding the danger lurking in Hannibal’s eyes — whatever the cause, the result is shaping up to be a serious oversight on his part. 

“This isn’t about what Will thinks.” 

“What is this then?” 

“For you, this is…” Hannibal pauses, cupping the back of Antony’s head with his hand, pulling it closer.

His other hand sneaks under the man’s jaw as if guiding him into a kiss. The kiss Hannibal has been denying him all night. And every night before this. Instead, he twists Antony’s head sideways in a sudden sharp movement, the loud crunch of a broken neck finally satisfying that ache in his chest. 

“For you, this is a game over,” Hannibal finishes. 

Antony Dimmond doesn’t blink, doesn’t scream and doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t bleed hearts and diamonds, and definitely not clubs and spades. He doesn't bleed at all. Because Hannibal doesn’t want him to. 

Because all the colours are Will’s to bleed, all the suits are Will’s to wear, and all of Hannibal’s cards are for Will to see. It’s their game of high stakes, betting away their hearts and lives; a game that only has room for two.

**Author's Note:**

> I counted all the poker/cards/game references and there were at least 38. oops...


End file.
